The Tea Party Of Queens: Snow White
by LinzRW
Summary: In Fairy Island, a vicious world of torture and backstabbing, five legendary queens meet for a extravaganza to attract tourism. Under threat of dancing in burning shoes if they ever repeat what they hear, Snow White, Belle, Aurora, Ariel, and Cinderella decide to share their true stories with one another. First Story: Snow White.
1. Interlude 1: Introduction To The Queens

**Interlude One: Introduction To The Queens**

The Glass Palace of the Capital was a point of bragging for the citizens of Verriere. It was made for Cinderella by the late king to commemorate their meeting (the one where he found her glass slipper on the stairs). The building was a piece of modern architectural genius, composed of glass and silver that, when the sun's rays hit it just right, glittered like the surface of the sea. The top of the palace was a dome with silver frames laced across the glass like an intricate cobweb, and the exterior walls were made of a special granite that contained scattered pieces of silver dust. The palace was, to speak plainly, a fantastical sight. The people of Verriere, a population that prided itself in extravagance, looked upon the Glass Palace and called it their masterpiece.

It was also a point of pride to the people of Verriere that the Tea Party of Queens, a spectacle that happened once every century, was taking place in the Glass Palace this year. The Tea Party of Queens is a gathering of the female rulers of the five Fairy's Islands. The extravaganza lasted a week with the queens getting to know one another, visiting local sites, attending red-carpet events, and having tea (of course). The event was supposed to strengthen foreign relations, but in truth, Queen Cinderella planned to use the event to increase the size of the Verriere treasury (which suffered from the expensive lifestyle of the island's people).

On the first day of the year 5040, the streets of Verriere were packed. The residents of the Capital were dressed in bright, flamboyant colors. They screamed and shouted, waving banners over their heads. But they were not alone. People from the countryside of Verriere had come into the city and people from other countries had sailed over the ocean to see the parade of queens arrive at the Glass Palace. Old men, young men, old women, young women, children, mother, fathers, friends, families, neighbors, strangers—all packed together on the smooth concrete sidewalks of downtown Verriere. Noise buzzed through the city and businesses were booming. As the limousines passed through the barricaded streets, a screeching cheer rose up amongst the well-dressed crowds. Confetti filled the air and banners waved—the people of Verriere never did anything half-heartedly. The queens arrived in style, cheered on by a roaring, over-the-top crowd, and then greeted by the elegant Queen Cinderella and her second husband King Stephen.

The morning had gone over smoothly, all according to Cinderella's plan. However, the next step in the weeklong Tea Party of Queens extravaganza was dinner—and that was something for which she was entirely unprepared.

Five queens sat around a grand table, daintily consuming their desserts and sipping their teas. The dining room was bigger than necessary for five people, since the late king had built it to hosts dinners of fifty people. The room possessed an entire wall made out of glass that looked out over a lantern-lit courtyard of trees bearing pink flowers and carefully combed rock gardens. The grand table was decorated with silver centerpieces and serviette holders; the plates were made of fine, white porcelain, and the silverware had been polished multiple times in anticipation of the guests.

Her Highness Queen Cinderella, as the hostess, sat at the head of the table, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles and her thin fingers curled around her teacup. She wore a glistening silver gown with glass slippers on her feet (the shoes were only a remake of the original pair). The descriptions of Cinderella's beauty had been vastly overdone by _Fairy Times Magazine _(the only magazine to be published in all five islands). Cinderella was perhaps not so much beautiful as she was striking. Golden—that was the only way to describe her. Her skin, her hair, her eyes were all different shades of gold and her features were sharp and eye-catching. Tall and lean with the prowl of a lioness, Cinderella was the image of a commanding queen.

On her right sat Snow White, whose long hair fell loosely over her shoulders. Her Majesty Queen Snow White of Terre De Miroir was known to be the most beautiful woman in the Fairy's Islands. To quote _Fairy Times_, she had "skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony". She was tall and fair, and moved with the elegance of a woman who knew that she was all those things. At the moment, her wild, black eyes glowered across the table at Queen Aurora, the Sleeping Beauty of Nuireve.

Aurora's black hair was pinned up in a bun with ornate jewels, and her healthy, brown skin (characteristic of people from the southernmost island) glowed against the bright yellow dress that she wore. For the previous three courses, Aurora had been the life of the conversation. She had talked constantly about the palace, the journey to Verriere, the difference in atmosphere from the dessert-like Nuireve, about how charming king Stephen was, and how she wished her King Philip could meet them. After a long dinner of one-sided conversation, Aurora sank into silence as she absent-mindedly ate her chocolate éclair.

Beside Aurora sat a petite redhead, who sipped her tea daintily and stared at the lace doily on which her saucer was placed. Queen Ariel, the Once Mermaid of Maricean possessed bottle-green eyes and an award-winning smile (she's the five-time winner of _Siren Weekly's Most Appealing Female Smile_). She was not smiling currently and, in fact, had not smiled since her arrival in Verriere—except to give the reporters one good photo.

On the opposite side of the table was Her Highness Queen Belle of Eria, who had the title of "the Beauty". She was not beautiful in the same way as Queen Snow White (which many men seemed to think was the only definition of the word). Belle was slightly overweight with olive skin and curly brown hair, but her hips and curves were complimented by the low-cut navy blue dress that she wore. Belle's sweet and charming nature had tamed the beastly King Adam, and earned her the title of "Beauty".

The five queens sat in complete and utter silence, consuming their desserts and unsure what to say to one another.

It was Ariel (instructed by King Eric of Maricean that small talk was a human necessity) who finally broke the silence. "The weather is pleasant here."

"Yes," said Cinderella. "During the summer. Come winter, Verriere will be covered in snow."

"It must be nice," said Belle. "To have a change in weather. Our weather is always mild. Seasons do not exist in Eria."

"Once you have experienced snow, you will not think so highly of it," said Cinderella.

Aurora traced the rim of her teacup with her thumb and smiled. "Nuireve is always hot. Our seasons are dry and wet. There is no in between."

"That sounds like a nightmare," said Snow White. "Remind me never to visit Nuireve."

"A nightmare?" repeated Aurora. "I think it sounds more like a dream. The rain washes all the bad things away."

"A dream," scoffed Snow White. "Do you hear her? She's not even trying to hide it anymore."

"Hide what?" asked Ariel, her lips curling into a frown.

"Your Majesty, please," said Cinderella, trying to keep the conversation somewhat civil.

Snow White smirked. "Stop trying to be the nice hostess. We all know you're in this for the money. I'm amazed you're kingdom hasn't gone broke yet. How do you keep the treasury in check?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," said Cinderella stiffly.

"Sure you do," said Snow White. She leaned back in her chair and took a bite of her chocolate éclair. She swallowed and smiled smugly at her fellow queens. "You're not the only one with spiders listening, Cinderblock."

Cinderella had been warned of Snow White's reputation for being crude and blunt. It took all of Cinderella's self-restraint (which she had acquired only with years of practice) not to gouge out Snow White's pretty black eyes with a teaspoon.

"I don't know what you mean," said Cinderella. "I detest spiders."

"What a shame," said Aurora. "They are such lovely creatures. I know some people are disturbed by the amount of legs they have, but they do keep the number of insects down."

Snow White rolled her eyes. "Cinderblock doesn't mean _those_ spiders. She means spies."

"Oh, but spies are such lovely creatures too," said Aurora. "They tell me stories of far off lands. I do find it entertaining. They told me a story about you, Snow White. You and your late mother's huntsman talking in a bar before he died on the table in front of you. Most curious timing, isn't it?"

"Oh?" Snow White leaned forward and flashed a grin at Aurora. "You're not as stupid as you let on. Do tell me, though—is it true that you're the last one of your kind? Or have you hidden the others away for safe keeping?"

Aurora's mouth twitched on the verge of a frown. She hid her discontent by taking a large bite of dessert.

"Do tell me, Your Majesty," said Belle, turning her brown eyes to Snow White. "Is it true that you had an affair with one of the dwarves?"

Snow White let out a bark of laughter. "Rumors get so out of hand. There was only one dwarf and I can promise you, I did not have an affair with him. He has a husband."

"The dwarf was gay?" asked Cinderella, her gaze sharpening with interest.

"Much like your late husband if _my _spiders are correct," said Snow White.

Aurora bit her bottom lip. "Secrets come out when you dine with people you dislike."

"I despise secrets," said Ariel.

"But you have a few of your own," said Belle, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table.

"Eric told me that we must keep some things private," said Ariel. "For the sake of our image."

"Always for the sake of our image," said Cinderella, still glowering at Snow White.

"Yes," said Snow White. "Because our precious Cinderblock wouldn't want her flawless image of be tarnished because of the painful truth that she's a golddigging whore."

"And you're a vain little murderer," said Cinderella.

"You're both hypocritical bitches who are incapable of being honest," said Ariel as she inspected her neatly manicured fingernails.

"I think we should listen to the whole story before we start throwing out accusations," said Aurora.

"That's an excellent idea," said Belle. She took a sip of her tea and then set the cup down on the saucer with a little clink of porcelain against porcelain. She waited until all eyes had turned to her before she stated her proposal. "We have a week together, and we all hate each other. I, personally, don't want to spend a week with you five, trying to come up with awkward conversation. I propose that the only way to deal with each other is to tell the truth, the whole truth, of how we came to power."

The four other queens stared at Belle, disbelief on all their faces. They glanced at one another. Aurora was nervous, Ariel was hesitant, Snow White and Cinderella were hateful.

"Eric said the story must be kept secret," said Ariel.

"How do I know that you will not use the story to blackmail me?" asked Cinderella.

"It could put my crown in jeopardy," said Snow White.

"It could put more than a crown in jeopardy," said Aurora. "Lives could be on the line."

"Calm down," said Belle. She took another sip of tea and then offered the group a heartwarming smile. "We can make a pact. Anyone who repeats these stories outside of the Tea Party of Queens will have her head cut off by the other four queens."

"Oh no," said Snow White. "First she shall be submitted to Dansfeu."

"What's that?" asked Ariel.

A crooked grin flashed across Snow White's face and she shifted in her seat so that her red dress shimmered until the light of the chandelier. "The people of Terre De Miroir appreciate a spectacle of death. We fit iron shoes on a criminal and have the bastard dance through hot coals until his feet are cooked in the shoes and he dies from the pain."

A collective shudder ran through the room. The violent entertainment of Terre De Miroir was infamous. Public fights, torture, and executions were popular pastimes. At some point in their lives, the other four queens had thanked the Fairy that they had not been born in Terre De Miroir. And now, before them, sat the beautiful, crude Snow White, the leader of those bloodthirsty people.

"Maricean has a capital punishment as well," said Ariel in her usual sweet voice. "Nou-Ri-Requin is a spectacle where criminals are put in a watery cage with three starved, blood-hungry sharks. The record for fastest death is three-point-four seconds. One shark took the head and another shark took the feet and they tore the man in two."

"Dreadful," said Aurora. "Public punishment is a dreadful thing."

"Oh, don't judge," said Snow White. "We've all heard of Nuireve's infamous hunts. Who did you chase down last week? A homeless man who asked the wrong person for change? A teacher who was too harsh in grading?"

"We don't do that anymore," said Aurora stiffly.

"Keep lying to yourself," said Belle. "You're a fool if you think otherwise." She ran her fingers through her long, brown hair and sighed. "So are we going to share our stories or not?"

"You see awfully eager," said Cinderella.

"I need some entertainment during this week long torture," said Belle.

"Oh." Snow White grinned, showing all of her gleaming teeth. "I like the Beauty. She's snappy."

The murderous look that Cinderella gave Snow White would have put the infamous Maricean sharks to shame. However, Snow White took no notice and she looked around the table.

"I'll go first," she said. "But you have been warned. If you tell _anyone_ about my story, I will take the key to my palace and stick it in your throat until I find out how to unlock your trachea."


	2. Chapter 1: A Handsome Marriage Proposal

**A/N: I was unsatisfied with the world I had created for this story so I'm going back and changing it. I think the previous setting had no depth to it and Snow White was kidnapped so many times within a week. Sorry if you were waiting eagerly for the new chapter, but I really want to rewrite this in a way that satisfies me. Hopefully, you will appreciate these changes. I apologize for the inconvenience of my readers.**

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**Chapter One: A Handsome Marriage Proposal**

You have no right to judge me. I see you looking at me now. You see the violence of Terre De Miroir in me and you condemn me for it. But you have no right. I can try to explain it to you, but you will never understand. Until you have lived my life second for second, witnessed every spectacle that I have and felt every stranger's sidelong glance, you have no idea how I became the woman that I am. You have no right to judge me.

I will try to explain my upbringing before I begin my story. You will never understand fully. You will call me violent, proud, stubborn, cruel, ambitious, vengeful, and hateful. But you must understand, all those adjectives also describe my country.

Terre De Miroir was an island raised in violence.

Amongst the five Fairy's Islands, we are the entrepreneurs in technology. Your cellphones? Your laptops? You television? All made in Terre De Miroir. But while we advanced technologically, our taste for cruelty and violence simultaneously advanced.

The first two thousand years of Terre De Miroir's history is stained with the violence of the five tribes (these five tribes would later become the main cities of Terre De Miroir—Pensee, Verite, Renvoy, Neiger, and Dunor). It was not until the seafarers of Maricean landed on the coast owned by the Dunor tribe in the year 1609. Maricean brought boats and technology to Terre De Miroir, and soon, Terre De Miroir entered into the trading business. But what did a northern, desolate island like Terre De Miroir have to offer the other four islands? Technology, we discovered. We could invent things. And so, the race amongst the five tribes for technological superiority began.

Cities were built, weapons created, and engines invented in Terre De Miroir. During the next three thousand years, the five tribes fought viciously to protect their progress and knowledge. Wars broke out between cities, traitors and enemies were punished with public cruelty—prisoners were made to kill each other and fight ravenous carrion birds; the southeastern tribe of Renvoy developed the concept of Danfeu, dancing to death in iron shoes. This went on for centuries, destroying the economy of Terre De Miroir several times. We actually lost control of the technological monopoly for some time. Eventually, what had begun as simple execution turned to games of cruelty. And by that time, Terre De Miroir's taste for violence and blood became unquenchable.

Eventually, the constant wars drove the five tribes bankrupt. Weapons are expensive, you know. People in the same tribe were forced steal, cheat, and lie simply to each. Muggings happened in broad daylight. Prostitution was a common practice. In the end, the starving, desperate people would fight each other as a spectacle to entertain the elite. By the end of the fifth millennium, the tribes were being devoured from the inside.

In the year 4998, the Warlord of Neiger, Landor White, defeated the other warlords. In a wave of bloodshed and metal, he tore through the country and took the title of "king" as he stood on the corpses of thousands of men. All those technological advances that had been made in each tribe's separate city were, for the first time, united. They no longer needed to spend money on war and, under the leadership of their first king, the people of Terre De Miroir were able to drag themselves out of bankruptcy.

King Landor White, my father, was headstrong, violent, and proud. He took and he took and he took and he never gave. When he became king, he took the intellectuals and locked them away until, under threat of Dansfeu, they created new technology. He took the Spectacles, made then state-hosted events, and charged money for attendance. And he took the most beautiful woman in all the land for his wife.

That "most beautiful woman in all the land" was my mother, Rose. She was taken from her poverty-stricken parents at the age of twelve because she was beautiful and she was placed on a throne because she was beautiful and she was draped in jewels because she was beautiful. Everything that she was, she had because she was beautiful. She was convinced of that. She believed it with all her heart. Do you understand? (This is an important part of how I was raised.)

My parents were married for five years without children before the problem arose. My father wanted a son to carry on his reign. My mother wanted no children (she was frightened that pregnancy would mar her beauty). The arguments filled the halls of the palace until my father threatened to have _her _dance in red-hot iron shoes if she didn't bear him a son.

In order to protect her position, my mother became pregnant with me. Well, you can imagine my father's disappointment at my gender. He wanted my mother to try again and she didn't want to. Three months later, my father, King Landor White of Terre De Miroir, was found dead, poisoned at the hands of his mistress. I wasn't even a year old.

There are three things you need to know about my upbringing.

Firstly, I was raised by a strong, single queen. Despite the words of her advisors, my mother refused to marry again. She ruled Terre De Miroir with a fist of steel and she ruled me in a similar way. There are two ways that children can come out when their parents are merciless. I could have been a timid, kind girl who strove to be the opposite of my mother or I could have been a strong, rebellious girl who fought every command my mother ever gave me. As you can imagine, I turned out the latter.

Secondly, I was raised to believe in beauty above all else. My mother was given her status, her wealth, her power due to her beauty. The Mirror of Truth, a gift from the Fairy, which was supposed to be used to rule the country wisely, she used to confirm that she was the most beautiful woman in all the land. She believed that beauty could get her anywhere, and she passed this belief down to me.

Thirdly, I was raised by a woman who hated me. When I was six, she took me to a hedgewitch's home in downtown Pensee (the capital city of Terre De Miroir). My mother told me that a woman's only weapon is poison. She had the hedgewitch show me how a deadly poison, known as Lace, worked on lab rats. Then, as the rat regurgitated the insides of its own stomach, gave one last shuddering breath, and died, my mother told me that if I ever disobeyed her, I would suffer the same fate as that rat.

It is little wonder that my personality ended up the wreck that it is.

Alright, so now that we have the background information out of the way, where should I begin my story? I suppose the only way that I could start is with the marriage proposal. Though unrest had been brewing for quite some time, the marriage proposal really was the catalyst.

I was twenty-years-old when a prince decided I was marriageable. What prince? Prince Richard the Charming of Verriere, actually—you know him well, don't you, Cinderblock?

Anyway, my marriage to Prince Charming of Verriere would put my mother's claim to the throne in question, so, as you can guess, my mother was not happy about that.

"He's not attracted to women," said my mother.

She paced back and forth across the North Chamber of the Black Root Palace, the hem of her dark purple dress flapped about her ankles as she walked.

The palace had been built by the noble Red family long before King Landor White came to Pensee. It was made of pale granite with black-metal spires reaching towards the sky. The palace was built in the Old Style, with stain-glass windows and carved arches, which stood out boldly against the abstract designs of the new buildings in Pensee. The interior of the palace had been brought to modern times, decorated with expensive leather couches, electric fireplaces, wall-sized televisions, and actual air conditioning. The only room that had been kept in the traditional Old Style was the North Chamber, which was home to the Fairy's Mirror.

As you know, when the Fairy created these five islands to each island the Fairy gave a gift. To Terre De Miroir, the Fairy gave the Mirror of Truth. Even now, I remember the mirror perfectly—a huge, circular mirror framed in black metal, which crisscrossed around the polished glass. In theory, if you ask the Mirror a question, it will respond with the truth. But I happened to know that the Mirror is very specific. Sometimes, the Mirror won't answer the questioned asked of it and sometimes it will answer questions asked in its presence but not directed to it.

My mother, Queen Rose White, paced in front of the Mirror, fuming. She was dressed for the occasion in a dark purple gown that clung to her rail-thin hips. My mother was the perfect image of an aging beauty. She still possessed the soft, attractive features of her youth, but the years had caused faint wrinkles to appear. My mother always pretended not to notice. She held her head high and her smooth, black hair hung down to her waist in ringlets. A golden crown rested on her head proclaiming her the supreme ruler of Terre De Miroir.

"How can he propose to my daughter?" asked Mother. "My daughter is _female_. She does not have a penis."

My mouth twitch into a smile at the sound of my mother using such a _crude_ word.

"Prince Richard cannot provide an heir to his kingdom if he marries a man," said Antyom, always the voice of reason.

Beside the Mirror stood Antyom, my mother's hired sorcerer. When I was ten, my mother brought Antyom, with his dark skin and tattooed head, from Nuireve. I had never seen a southern man before, let alone a sorcerer. Antyom, with his curses and spells, had both fascinated and frightened me. A week after his arrival, Antyom punished an ambassador from Maricean, who had spoken out against the Festival of Skeletons.

Oh, but you don't know what the Festival of Skeletons is, do you? The festival first began four hundred years ago in Pensee, but now people from all the cities come to watch. Four times a year, with the change of seasons, the unemployed and homeless are gathered from one of the cities and brought to Pensee. After begin starved for a week, the homeless will be thrown into a stadium where they are expected will tear and bite each other until a victor emerges—this festival is the only time that cannibalism is legal in Terre De Miroir. The ambassador called the festival "an abomination created from the cruelty of the human mind". Antyom chained the ambassador by the ankles to the ceiling and hung him over a pit of starving festival participants. They ate every part of him that they could reach.

Oh yes, I learned to fear Antyom.

"Curse him," said Mother, rounding on Antyom, her blue eyes flashing with icy rage. "Curse Prince Charming so that he may not use my daughter for such an abominable purpose."

"Abominable purpose?" I asked, speaking for the first time since hearing about my marriage proposal.

I stood in the far end of the room, as close to the exit as I could, leaning against the black stone wall. My arms were folded over my chest (my superb 36D chest) and my legs casually crossed. I wore a black skirt under a red blouse—simple, but it looked fabulous on me, who my mother knew to be the most beautiful woman in the world since the day I turned eighteen.

"He only wants to marry you for your gender," cried Mother.

"And my status," I said. "I _am_ the next ruler of Terre De Miroir."

That comment rewarded me with my mother's livid reaction. Her cheeks and forehead blotched red and she quickly turned away from me so that I would not see her face at its least attractive moment. When she turned back to me, her skin had returned to its flawless, pale color. She smiled at me, though I could see the burning hatred behind her mask.

"I don't want you to enter into a loveless marriage," said Mother.

"Is he handsome?" I asked.

It was not mother who responded, but the Mirror. A deep, musical voice flooded the room. I felt my very bones shudder with the sheer power that rang through the North Chamber. The Mirror, which spoke with only heavy truth, said, "Yes."

"Will I find a more handsome husband?" I asked.

"No."

I turned to my mother and gave her a smug smile. "I accept the proposal."

"Snow White!" cried Mother.

"I want the most handsome man in all the land," I said, tossing my mane of black hair over my shoulder. "Only he can match me, the most beautiful woman in all the world. I will marry him and I will accept the title of Queen."

Mother gritted her teeth. "Snow White."

"The marriage, Mother, will form an alliance between Verriere and Terre De Miroir. I will have two children. The eldest will inherit the throne of Verriere and the youngest will rule Terre De Miroir. The two countries will be tied by blood long after you and I are dead."

"Dead," snapped Mother, her voice twanging with distaste on the word.

"Not even the sorcerer can provide you with immortality, Mother," I said.

Antyom's face showed no change at his mention. According to the servants, my mother had asked him about immortality several times and each time Antyom had responded in the same manner—immortality is impossible for all but the Fairy.

"You will grow old, Mother," I said. "Your hair will turn gray and your face will wrinkle. You will die and your bones will turn to dust. The Fairy decreed it so."

"The Fairy decreed nothing," snapped Mother. "We only _think_ the Fairy decreed it so. Those without ambition accept death blindly."

"Oh?" A smirk flitted across my face. "With a mentality like that, Mother, you should try your hand in the Spectacles. I'm sure the other participants would fall to their needs before you."

"Snow White. I am losing my patience," said Mother.

The cellphone in my pocket vibrated and, after typing in the password, I read the message that I had received.

I pushed off from the wall and took a step towards my mother. "I want to go through with the marriage proposal. I want to secure Terre De Miroir's alliances. I want to tie us to a country that has access to gold and silver. I want to save Terre De Miroir from any possibility of debt. I can see no reason not to go through with this marriage proposal to the handsome Prince Charming. I want what's best for my country—what do you want, Mother?"

The next few words took all of her effort and all of her acting skills to say: "I want you to be happy, Snow."

I beamed at her. I was her spitting image. The same pitch-black hair, the same snow-fair skin, the same red lips, the same round face, the same height that caused us to tower over many men, the same skinny hips that questioned our child-bearing abilities, and the same confident air that drew men's eyes to us. The only things I had inherited from my father, or so the nameless maids told me, were my black eyes.

"Mother," I said. "It's nice to see you so concerned of my well-being. But, you know, there's a reason you're a queen instead of an actress."

Queen Rose White of Terre De Miroir pulled herself up to her full height and said, with all the feeling she could muster, "Being an actress is part of being a queen. The fact that you do not understand this shows that you do not understand what it means to be a monarch, and you are not ready to decide who you are going to marry."

I kept the smug grin plastered across my face. "You really feel threatened by me, don't you?"

Mother was bustling with rage, while I wore that hateful smile until my cheeks hurt.

"Get out," said Mother. Her voice was a venomous hiss. "Get out _now_."

"No need to tell me." I said, holding up the cellphone. "My car is waiting. I have a Spectacle to attend."

I walked towards the door, my skirt brushing against my thighs as I moved. I reached the door and had it partially open before I turned back and said, "Before I go—Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"

The Mirror spoke as it had spoken for these past two years. In the voice that knew all, the Mirror said, "Snow White."

My mother was livid. The corners of her mouth and her forehead were streaked with frown lines. Her hands trembled and her lips pouted stubbornly. Antyom stood beside the mirror in silence, though irritation burned behind his coal black eyes.

I beamed at the two of them, curtsied politely, and then closed the door firmly behind me.


	3. Chapter 2: The Spectacle Of Merry Misfit

**A/N: So far there are only subtle changes (add conversations, changes phrases, explanations of Terre De Miroir etc.). Actually, most of the big changes occurred in my outline in parts that I hadn't written yet, so that's good. **

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**Chapter Two: The Spectacle Of Merry Misfits**

I sat alone in the booth decorated by red and black banners and looked out at the bloodstained stage in the center of the stadium. I had come to the Spectacle to be courteous to the poor and to get away from my mother. It was considered bad form for a Spectacle to go without the presence of some member of royalty present. The people who lived in the poverty-stricken outskirts of Pensee were giving up their lives as entertainment to the elite, the least the wealthy could do was watch. Since none of the Red family (the nobility of the Pensee tribe) could attend this Spectacle, I had volunteered to do so in their stead.

I suppose I should explain why Terre De Miroir has so many poor people. We have almost no middle class. Terre De Miroir is not built on trading and business. We are a country of ideas—we create technology. People come up with the ideas and then we have technology to manufacture that technology—the need for manual labor is almost non-existent. We ship the technology we create to different foreign businesses and _they _sell our products. Over the years, we simply cut out our middle-class jobs. Groceries, we order and ship from foreign countries. Finances are dealt with by foreign banks. Our justice system is decided by violent fights to the death. Lawyers, bankers, food providers, all these jobs have been taken out of our system, eliminating our middle class and leaving the wealthy and the poor.

Don't look at me like that—Terre De Miroir has always been that way. We have made progress in the last four years, but the huge divide still exists.

Anyway, back to the Spectacle.

Part of the reason why I had decided to grace this particular Spectacle with my presence because the renowned Merry Misfits were participating. Many times people who are good at fighting will voluntarily enter the Spectacles—the Merry Misfits were one such group. Containing a dwarf, a crossdressr, and a fallen nobleman, the Merry Misfits fought as a trio and had yet to lose. My maid, who had accompanied me to the Spectacle, knew much about the Merry Misfits. Though I had heard much about them, this was my first time watching them in action.

Currently, however, a muscular man with dark brown hair was fighting a wolf. The wolf had been specially bred for the Stage and was almost three times the size of the fighter. The match was about to end as the wolf had already taken a huge bite out of the fighter's shoulder and the man was on the verge fainting from blood loss.

"Who is next?" I asked, lazily pulling out my cellphone and checking the time. I had already seen three fights and they had all bored me.

"The Merry Misfits," said the maid who had accompanied me to the Spectacle.

I was in the highest booth, which was reserved for royalty. I had the prime spot where I could see every inch of the stage in perfect detail—so I wouldn't miss a moment of the gory deaths. The seats were cushioned and there was a canopy to block the sunlight so that my fair skin would never be burned (not that my skin could tan, when I was little I would lie out in the sun in an attempt to defy my mother, but my skin would never alter from its pure white color—I blame genetics). To my right and left were booths for the elite. Their booths, though less comfortable than mine, were filled with people, chatting eagerly about how long until the blond-haired man passed out and the wolf savaged his body. Below the elite were the seats of the poor. They were bleachers that circled around the Stage and were just far enough above the ground that when the deaths were particularly violent, they would be splattered in blood. The bleachers were filled with the poor who were willing to pay for such inexpensive and messy seats.

"Do you go to the Spectacles often?" I asked.

My maid nodded. "My boyfriend works in the trenches. He gets me tickets, Your Highness."

"Then do you go backstage?" I watched impassively as the wolf lunged forward, knocking the sluggish fighter to the ground.

"Yes," she said eagerly. "I've met the Merry Misfits before, Your Highness."

The wolf opened its mouth, baring sharp, yellow teeth. It clasped its jaw around the man's shoulder. There was a ripping noise and a howl of pain. The stands roared as the wolf tore open the man's chest and gnawed until its muzzle was stained red.

"And what do you think?" I asked.

"A little rough around the edges," said my maid. "But that gives them _character_. They're so different from the other groups in the Spectacles. The Merry Misfits are _entertaining_. That's what it's about, my boyfriend told me. You can kill and you can kill well, but it won't appease the audience. They key is to draw the audience in. Get them to root for you. Make them think that you're going to lose and then come from behind to get the win. That's how you do it. That's why they're successful, Your Highness."

I glanced sidelong at her, and saw that she was smiling at me. The maid was cute, I suppose, with curly brown hair and a round face—an 8-out-of-10—however, she was nothing in comparison to me.

"Did you talk with Colton?" I asked, turning my attention back to the stage. The seven animal wranglers were coming onto the stage and tying ropes around the wolf. The wolf howled and clawed at them, disappointed to be dragged away from his dripping meal of liver and bones.

"Yes, Your Highness," said my maid. "The Council has been discussing the passage of reign from your mother, Her Majesty, to you after your marriage to Prince Richard of Verriere."

"Of course," I said. "She's not happy."

"No," said my maid. "Master Colton suspects she will try to eliminate you before your arrival in Dunor to meet Prince Richard of Verriere. He has doubled the number of your guards just in case, Your Highness."

I drummed my fingers on the edge of my seat. "I expect nothing less of my mother. What else do you have to report?"

As the wranglers tried to move the wolf to the cages, one of them—a woman—tripped, lost grip on her rope, and the wolf lunged towards her. The audience was treated to another death as the wolf caught her skull between its teeth and bit down. A man and woman kissed in the crowed. The woman intertwined her fingers in the man's short, curly hair. He pulled away from her, laughing, and she grinned back. Back on the stage, a wrangler came out and shot the wolf with a tranquilizer. The wolf teetered about and then collapsed on the ground, dead asleep.

"Your mother, Her Majesty, plans to send troops led by General Arrington into the wasteland, Your Highness."

"She finally plans to deal with the companies, then," I said.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"It'd be best, then," I said. "To make a move when a large portion of my mother's army is away."

"Should I speak with Master Colton, then, Your Highness?" asked my maid.

"I suppose you should," I said dully. "When we return, tell him I wish to meet with him."

"Yes, Your Highness."

The wranglers finally wrestled the wolf onto the back of a small truck and through the gates at the edge of the stage. The truck disappeared into the darkness of the trenches, clearing the circular floor of packed blood and dirt for the next part of the Spectacle.

I stared out at the now empty stage. Despite the lack of entertaining between events, the crowd was buzzing with excitement—probably because the infamous Merry Misfits were going to come out next. The bloodstained dirt of the stage wasn't cleaned between events. It was tradition to see how much blood could be spilled before the end. Supposedly, the redder the ground, the more successful the Spectacle.

"Do you ever wonder why?" I asked.

My maid frowned. "Why what, Your Highness?"

"Why we enjoy watching death?"

"Because it is entertaining, Your Highness," said my maid as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

I drummed my fingers on the bare skin of my knee. "Death reminds me that I am alive. I see these poor, hungry people and watch them die in violent ways, and it reminds me that I am fortunate. By the roll of the dice that was my birth, I sit up here and they fight down there. All of us who sit in the stands and look down—doesn't that make us feel good?"

My maid stared at me. Her big, brown eyes blinked in confusion. "Perhaps, Your Highness."

"I am alive," I said, softly. "Isn't that interesting?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

I turned my head away from her and her 8-out-of-10 face. I watched as the Master of Ceremonies, a short man with a pudgy face, raised his hands into the air and let his voice fill the stadium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "I am pleased to bring you the final performance of the Spectacle. Man versus man. Head versus head. Guts versus guts. In a three on three battle to the bloody death—The Wolfshead Hunters and the Merry Misfits!"

My maid squeaked in an attempt to suppress her excitement. The crowd roared in approval, stomping their feet and shouting obscenities. I watched impassively as the members of each group ran into the stage as their names were called.

"Hunter Gary Braxton!"

From the gates ran a broad, muscular man with tanned arms and a tattoo of a black arrow that ran down the side of his face from his temple to his chin.

"Hunter Eaton Phelps!"

The second member of the Wolfshead Hunters was a red-haired, fair-skinned man who, while he had no bulk, has long, lean arms and moved with the speed of a beast. Gary Braxton thumped Eaton on the back as the two teammates joined one another beneath the roar of the crowd. There were some jeers, but for the most part the crowd was cheering for blood.

"And, finally, Hunter John Maddow!"

John Maddow jogged out into the stage. He wore all hunting gear with a sword strapped to his side and quiver on his back. He held the longbow (guns were not permitted in the Spectacles) in his right hand, prepared for distance shots. His hair was brown and pulled back into a braid with was intertwined with leather and metal spikes, so that if anyone tried to grab a handful of his hair, they were in for a big surprise.

"And now, representing the Merry Misfits, Edmond Marsten."

Edmond Marsten, it turned out, was the dwarf. Armed only with an axe that was as big as he was, Edmond waddled into the stage area. His face, just like his body was stunted—his nose was too big and his eyes were too small. He had a mean look to him beneath his mop of brown hair. He was frightening in his intensity, never once taking his eyes from his opponents.

"Florence Duvall!"

Despite the familiarity of the name, my face remained impassive.

A woman dressed in man's clothing walked out onto the Arena. Her blond hair was cropped close to her skull, a pale cap on her head. Her face, which might have been pretty if it weren't for the jagged scars that ran across her nose and cheeks, was ridden with determination. To draw the attention to crowd, she unsheathed the two swords that were strapped to her back and swung them around in impressive circles. The crowd howled in appreciation.

"And, finally, Pariser Red!"

Pariser Red, the fallen nobleman, was a stocky man in his mid-forties with gray streaks through his dark brown hair. He wielded a broad sword as though it weighed nothing and moved with the confidence of a man who fought many battles. He made no movement to please the crowd, but his simple presence was enough to spark them into excitement. Even my maid could contain her enthusiasm no longer. She burst into rancorous applause, and she was silenced only by a disapproving look from me.

"So what do you know about the Wolfshead Hunters?" I asked, watching the two teams get into formation.

"Not much Your Highness," said my maid. "They come from the north and they're very good at what they do."

"They _look_ very good at what they do," I said.

Once more, the echoing microphone filled the stadium and the Master of Ceremonies said, "Let the game begin."

At first, no one moved. Silence hung heavy in the air as the six fighters stared at one another. They were going to die. How many? Three? Four? Five? All? That shared last moment of life. They were all the same. Gladiators standing on a stage in front of hundreds of cheering people—all hoping that the fighters would die in the most gruesome way possible. Death was a breath away. The Merry Misfits and the Wolfshead Hunters, they were all the same—fodder to appease the crowd. The only difference was that at the end of the day, some would be paid and the rest would be dead.

Edmond Marsten the Dwarf made the first move. He leapt forward, swinging his axe up behind his head. He was about to bring the blade crashing into the stomach of Eaton Phelps, but Eaton managed to fend off his opponent with a quick jerk of his sword. Edmond leapt backwards to protect himself. He had no help from his allies now. Florence Duvall was gracefully handling Gary Braxtonwith her twin blades, and Pariser Red had already met swords with John Maddow. The sound of metal on metal rang through the stadium, grating against the people's ears and inflaming the cheers.

"Who will die first?" I asked.

"Gary Braxton of the Wolfshead Hunters," said my maid firmly. "He is no match for Florence, Your Highness."

"Is Florence that good?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh yes, Your Highness," said my maid. "Very good. She could give Master Colton a run for his money, Your Highness."

Before I could find out if my maid's prediction was true, Gary Braxton leapt away from Florence Duvall and pranced across the stage. He brought his blade crashing down on Pariser Red. The look of surprise that flash across Pariser's face left just enough time for John Maddow to move away. Florence was unsure to do what with her lost opponent, and John Maddow took advantage of Florence's confusion to string his long bow.

"You were wrong," I said.

"No one has died yet, Your Highness," said my maid.

I raised my eyebrows and was about to admonish the maid for speaking out against her princess, but I noticed that John Maddow knocked an arrow in place and had drawn back the bow. Taut with power, he aimed at Florence. I was enthralled by what was taking place before me-until a shrill scream pierced the air behind me.

I heard a click and spun around just in time to see the bullet pierce my maid in the throat. The split second it took for me to process that someone—a man who stood in the doorway of my booth—was trying to kill me. I threw myself to the side, just in time for to hear the click of the silenced gun and have the bullet shoot past me.

"The Huntsman." Those were the last words my maid ever said. She was choking on blood, barely able get the words out. She coughed and spluttered and then her legs gave out beneath her. She disappeared from my sight and from my mind. I had more important things to focus on than the death of a maid—like surviving.

I was lying on the ground, my skirt fanned out around me and my hands were thrown over the back of my head. My face pressed against cold, tile floor, I lay between the barricade wall of my booth and the feet of the cushioned chairs.

I peered through the gap between two chairs and saw my would-be-assassin. A brown hat covered half of his face and all I could see were his blue eyes. He held a silenced, black gun in his right hand and his eyes scanned the booth for a glimpse of me.

The Huntsman, my maid had called him. The head of my security and the master of my network, I told me of the Huntsman, a hired killer who was known for cutting out and eating the hearts of his victims. I shuddered and found a new surge of energy running through me—there was no fucking way anyone was going to sink his teeth into my beautiful heart.

"Shame," he said, gruffly as he kicked something (my maid's corpse) on the floor. "She wasn't worth anything."

Red-hot rage burned in my throat. I felt indignation on behalf of the dead, nameless maid whose boyfriend worked in the trenches of the stadium. The hatred scalded my throat and, like an idiot, I shouted, "I'll make you dance, you bastard—you'll dance into your grave!"

He leapt forward, trying to get the angle on me. At the same time, I jumped over the backs of the chairs and sprinted to the door. I heard the click of the gun and the sound of another bullet narrowly missed me, embedding itself in the plaster wall where my head had been moments ago. I could hear the shrill screams of the crowd, which—after hearing my maid's screams and my shouts—had finally realized that someone was trying to kill their princess. I stumbled across the booth, tossing chairs back at him in an attempt to slow him down and block the bullets. By some miracle, I made it across the room with being shot. I threw open the door and sprinted down the narrow, metal staircase.

He was trying to kill me. This Huntsman was trying to kill me.

Why? I didn't know who he was. He didn't know me. Someone must have hired him.

But who?

I had an idea. There was no proof, not yet, but the likelihood was high. After all, she had been plotting to kill me since the day I came out of her womb.

My feet stumbled on the stairs as I ran; I almost lost my grip. My hands struggled to find security and my fingers closed around the metal handrail. I swung around, stopping my run mid-stride, and clung to the handrail for dear life. I stood there, panting for breath, before I turned and continued my flight.

I barely reached the bottom of the stairs when I ran, head-first, into one of my bodyguards (to this day, I don't know his name). He grasped my by the wrist. I heard shouts from somewhere down the hall—perhaps members of the crowd who were trying to escape the stadium after hearing of the shooting. I looked around the lobby and realized that most of my bodyguards were dead. My throat felt thick as I took in the sight of bullet holes and smeared blood.

"Your Highness—are you alright?" asked the one remaining bodyguard.

"Who did this?" I cried, slapping his hand away from my wrist. "Where is he? I want to watch his screams as we clamp the hot iron shoes onto his feet. Where is the bastard Huntsman?"

"Your Highness! Look out!"

I spun around just in time to see the Huntsman pull the trigger. He failed to kill me only because my bodyguard threw himself between me and the gun. The bullet cut into my bodyguard's chest. I saw red blood and heard the scream of pain.

Nothing more. I didn't stay long enough to see the bodyguard die.

I was fleeing again. Past the lobby, down the hall, and through the metal door marked with a bright orange "Exit" sign. I pushed the bar and the door swung open, setting off the alarms. Shrill, shrieking sirens that pierced into my skull and gave me a brain-splitting headache. I ran from the private halls (which were reserved for the elite and me) to the public hall (where the lower class citizens were screaming and running about as they tried to escape). A bald man crashed into me and I stumbled backwards. A mother who was trying to keep a firm grip on her child's hand knocked me to the ground. A gray-haired woman stepped on me and managed a hurried apology as she sprinted to the exit.

Probably, I would have died right there, trampled by my own subjects on the dirt-stained tile floor of the stadium hallway, if it had not been for that fucking scoundrel. (You're probably confused right now, but I promise I will explain to you who he is in a bit. Right now, all you have to know is he is a scoundrel and he saved my life.)

He grabbed the back collar of my expensive, red, silk blouse and hoisted me to my feet. I saw a flash of his face beneath the hood—dark eyes, pert nose, and stubborn mouth—before he caught a firm grip of my forearm and dragged me through the crowd towards the exit. His fingernails dug into my porcelain skin and my right temple was throbbing where the woman had accidentally kicked me. The world was turning hazy and I blinked rapidly in an attempt to bring everything back to focus.

"Stop. I command you to stop." My words did not have as much force as they usually did.

He ignored me. He maneuvered through the crowd, using his shoulders and elbows to push people out of his way. All the while, he kept a firm grasp on my arm.

"I'll make him dance," I said, through the darkening haze. "I'll make him dance until his bones turn black."


	4. Chapter 4: The Scoundrel Of Scoundrels

**Chapter Three: The Scoundrel Of All Scoundrels**

I dreamed that I had been attacked at the Spectacle only to be rescued by some slightly-above-average-looking stranger. When I opened my eyes and found myself lying face down on a bed with a man's heavy arm draped over my shoulders, I realized that this had not been a dream and I had, in fact, almost been murdered the previous day. And now, there was a man sharing a bed with me.

Response Number One: Scream and throw the man's arm away from me.

Response Number Two: Hit him very hard on the head.

Response Number Three: Threaten to submit him to Dansfeu (AKA dance in burning iron shoes until death).

I stood over the bed, watching the man suspiciously and preparing to strike again if necessary. The man (who had actually saved my life) was rolling around in his uncomfortable, creaking bed, clutching his head and groaning. I stepped away from him, searching the dingy motel room for something I could use as a weapon. The room was empty of any possible weapons. It was a simple room with four walls, a small bed, and a suitcase containing the man's wrinkled clothes.

The man moaned and rolled over onto his back. As he moved to a sitting position, I gritted my teeth, drew myself up to my full height, and said, "Who are you and what do you want with me?"

He blinked, still not fully awake from a night's sleep. On a scale of 1 to 10 of attractiveness, I would give him a 6.5 (maybe a 7 if he hadn't just woken up). He had a nice jaw and nice eyes, but his nose was bit too feminine and he too scrawny for my taste. His mess of dark hair was uncombed and wild and it didn't help that he kept running his fingers through it. He was also wearing the black hoodie and jeans from yesterday—which were not flattering at all, especially after a sleeping in them.

I glanced down at my own clothes and saw that my brand-name blouse was wrinkled and my skirt was an atrocious rumpled mess. I gasped and glared at the man. "You'd better have a good explanation for all this."

He yawned. "Is that all the thanks I get?"

"It's all the thanks you deserve," I said. "You're uncouth and wild and the least you can do is tell me what happened at the stadium."

The man rubbed some of the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his right hand. "You were attacked in your booth by a man known as the Huntsman. He's a well-known assassin in these parts. Fun fact—he likes to remove his victims' hearts."

"I know that," I said. "And then he eats them."

"Only rumor," said the man. He slid out of bed and, standing upright, I realized that, without shoes on, he was the exact same height as me. "Somehow—you got away from him. Your maid and your bodyguards weren't so lucky."

"They are paid to protect me," I said. "They just so happened to get the bad roll of the dice."

"Oh—cold," he said, pretending to be offended. "Anyway, you fled into the public section of the stadium and almost got trampled. I found you—convenient since I was planning to talk to you anyways—and I rescued you. But you passed out after being kicked in the head, so I took you back to my humble abode where you slept—like a rock." He spread his arms out to gesture to his humble abode. It took me one glance at the water stains in the ceiling and the dust on the floor to know that this wasn't a real home but a sketchy motel room in the downtown part of Pensee.

"Did you really do nothing to me?" I asked, suspiciously.

"Of course not," he said. "I can't damage you."

"Of course. You cannot damage the most beautiful woman in the world." I smirked, trying to disguise the fact that I was checking my pockets for my cellphone. However, the phone, along with my purse, had been left in the booth at the stadium.

"The most beautiful woman in the world?" He let out a bark of mad laughter. "How'd you determine that?"

My smile was replaced by a distasteful frown. I debating throwing my shoe at him, but decided that he might not let me return to the palace if I did so. Instead, I tossed my hair over my shoulder, lifted my chin, and said, "Firstly, you should address me as 'Your Highness' as I am your princess. Secondly, I was told that I was the most beautiful woman in the world by the Mirror of Truth given to Terre De Miroir by the Fairy. Thirdly, don't you ever question my extraordinary beauty again with your slightly-above-average face or I will make sure you are the main course at the next Festival of Skeletons."

The man faked a gasp. "You want to feed me to your citizens who are so starving that they are willing to resort to cannibalism for your entertainment? Wow, you are a great princess, _Your Highness_."

"Shut up," I said. "Who are you to judge me?"

"Robert Nott," he said. He gave a slight, sarcastic bow. "You can call your heroic rescuer Robert Nott."

"What kind of name is that?" I asked disdainfully.

"What kind of name is Snow White?" he asked.

"A noble name," I said. "My father was the great Landor White, Warlord of Neiger and first king of Terre De Miroir. My name proves my heritage."

Robert smirked. When he took a step towards me, I held my ground, though my instincts told me to turn around and run the other way. There was something in his lithe movements that, while on the surface he appeared lethargic, revealed a precarious and jagged side to him. My rescuer was not to be trusted.

"You should address me by my title," I said. "You Highness or Princess Snow White."

"Why would I do that?" asked Robert.

My eyes narrowed. "Why did you rescue me?"

"I need you," said Robert, plain and clear. "I don't agree with your mother's politics and you are her only heir."

I raised my eyebrows. "So you're just the same as everyone else."

"Would you prefer that I said that I rescued you for money?"

"You could have rescued me for my beauty."

He grinned. "It's a tough world out there, Snow. And without money, I can't appreciate the beautiful things in life."

"You're a scoundrel," I said.

"I just don't want to end up in a Spectacle," said Robert.

"Accept the fact that you are unlucky," I said.

I took advantage of the silence to consider my situation. I could try to run away, but I was certain that Robert would outrun m, which would result in a much worse situation for myself. Robert wanted to use me to supplant my mother. But how. One man acting alone couldn't do much. So there must be more than just him. But where were the others? Perhaps Robert was acting on his own at the moment and the others would come later. So the question was—did I want to help Robert supplant my mother or did I want to do so on my own.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Are you agreeing?" asked Robert. His tone was casual, but I could sense the tension beneath.

"I'm seeing what I would be getting into," I said.

"You must agree first."

"What policies are you trying to change?" I asked. "I have my own agenda and if too many of your policies clash with mine then an agreement cannot be reached."

"Are you in the position to be analyzing my agenda?" asked Robert, smirking.

"Yes," I said. "If you want to be rid of my mother and change some of the policies of Terre De Miroir, then you need me on your side. When my mother dies, I will sit on that throne. If I die as well as my mother, then the title of 'King' will be passed to my uncle in Neiger, Neilan White—whose political policies might very well be worse than my mother's. Are you going to kill him as well? And his son? How many people are you going to kill before the person who agrees with your policies sits on the throne?" I curled a strand of my long, black hair around my index finger. "Robert Nott, you need me whether you like it or not."

He stared at me for a moment. There was a hardness to his gaze that sent shivers down my spine, but I kept my expression sharp and commanding. I would not waver in front of this man.

"You're right, of course, Snow," said Robert. "But I have to wonder—are you already planning on supplanting your mother?"

"Yes," I said.

"You're not hesitant," said Robert, laughing.

"It's the balance in our relationship," I said. "She tries to kill me and I try to supplant her."

"Sounds like a healthy mother-daughter relationship."

"Oh, it is." I folded my arms over my chest and said, "You haven't told me your policies."

"Right." Robert scratched his right shoulder. "Firstly, we don't approve of the Spectacles."

"The Spectacles are a large part of Terre De Miroir's treasury," I said, bluntly. "If we stop the games, we will lose millions of duks. Terre De Miroir will be forced into debt."

"I didn't say you had to eliminate the games all at once," said Robert. "But the games are killing of your own subjects, Snow—and your mother is actually encouraging the games."

"My father encouraged the games," I said.

"Your father was trying to drag Terre De Miroir out of the debt caused by the wars of the tribes," said Robert. "Terre De Miroir is now capable of standing without the Spectacles. While we cannot eliminate the Spectacles all at once, the monarch should at least move Terre De Miroir in the direction of eliminating such violence."

I tilted my head to side ever so slightly. "I'm surprised. You're not as stupid at you look."

"We also don't approve of your mother's decision to eliminate the companies of the wasteland."

"Why?" I asked.

"Your mother plans to massacre the companies," said Robert.

"Yes," I said. "I know."

An amused smile flickered across Robert's face. "I didn't know you were privy to your mother's councils."

"I didn't know you were," I said.

"I have friends in high places," said Robert.

"I have spiders in all places," I said.

"Good." Robert ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. "Then we're on the same page."

"But why do you care about the companies?" I asked. Even as I asked the question, realization struck me. "You belong to one of the companies."

"You're quite clever," said Robert approvingly.

"So," I said. "If I agree to work with you, will I receive the backing of your company?"

"Yes," said Robert. He leaned back on the bed, using his arms to hold himself up.

"Can you guarantee it?"

"My men will follow my lead."

Despite my best efforts, I could not suppress the surprise on my face. Robert meant that he was the leader of a company. The companies that roamed the wasteland that covered all but the cities of Terre De Miroir were usually led by experienced men who had survived the battles of the warlords. Robert couldn't be much older than I was, which meant he hadn't been born until after my father was named king.

"I must return to the Black Root Palace first," I said.

It was Robert's turn to be surprised. "Why?"

"You have your agenda, and I have mine," I said. "Mine requires me to return to the Black Root Palace first. I have no intention of abandoning you," I said. "I'll see you again this afternoon. Have you heard of Tatham Potions and Spells?"

"Potions and Spells?" repeated Robert blankly.

"I'll take that as a negative," I said, calmly trying to smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt. "I will be there this afternoon. Pick me up at eight o'clock sharp and the discussions will begin."

Robert surveyed me quietly, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "You don't want to stay and have a nice up o' tea?" he asked.

The look I gave him was dripping with poison. Robert smiled and hopped off the bed. I watched with disdain as he rummaged through the open suitcase on the floor and, from the pile of dirty clothes, selected a black-shirt and a brown, leather jacket. He saw the look of disgust on my face and grinned.

"I'm sorry they're not brand name, Snow."

"Call me 'Your Highness'," I said for the umpteenth time.

"You're so bossy," said Robert as he pulled off his hoodie and the dirty, white shirt beneath. I quickly looked away, refusing to tarnish my purity by looking at the bare chest of this sub-par looking man.

"What?" asked Robert. "Is my stunning physique blinding you?"

I glanced at his chest and stomach (admittedly, his build was, on a scale of 1 to 10, a 9). However, instead of giving him the satisfaction of admitting it, I scoffed. "You call that stunning? I didn't know the lower class had such mediocre standards."

Robert snorted. "I pity the poor man who marries you. If any man will marry you—is anyone worthy of the love of the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"I have a fiancé," I said, flatly.

"Really? Is he attractive?" asked Robert. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him put his t-shirt on and shrug into his jacket.

"Ready to go?" I asked, moving to the door.

"Shoes," said Robert, picking up the black sneakers the rest on the floor beneath the bed. "And you haven't answered my question. "Is he attractive?"

"According to the Mirror of Truth, yes. He is the most handsome husband I could acquire."

I saw Robert's mouth twitch upwards. He tried for a second to hide his amusement and then he doubled over with unrestrained laughter.

"That's your standard for a husband? He has to be attractive?"

"Shut up," I said, folding my arms over my chest. "It's not about love. It's not even about looks, in the end. It's about duty."

Robert was still trying to suppress his laughter as he pulled his shoes on over his socks. "Duty?"

I stared at him for a moment and then, in the coldest voice I could manage, I said, "Prince Richard the Charming of Verriere has money. You want to end the Spectacles, Robert Nott, then you need money. I am going to marry this man so that I have the money to support Terre De Miroir when I end the Spectacles."

I didn't wait for Robert's response. I strode past him and stood next to the door. "Let's go. I have things to do."

The surprise instantly vanished from Robert's face and the smirk returned. He stepped past me and opened the door, revealing the parking lot of the old, street-side motel. I thought he was going to hold the door open for me and I moved to leave the room, but Robert quickly stepped in front of me and stepped outside. He released the knob and I had to quickly put my hand out to avoid being hit by the closing door.

He laughed and made his way over to a run-down, red car.

"Fucking scoundrel," I muttered as I let the door shut behind me.

* * *

The fifteen minute car ride to the palace was done without conversation. Robert Nott the Scoundrel of All Scoundrels decided to turn the radio to the loudest, most rancorous station imaginable and let the music fill the car. My head was still stinging from being kicked and the music did not help. I glared at Robert, waiting for him to get the message, but he just grinned at me and sang along to the infuriating lyrics (almost all the songs had to do with violence and sex).

It was relief when he pulled up in front of the black, metal gates to the castle. The gates were closed and locked, so I had Robert stop the car beside the little black speaker that was embedded in the wall beside the gate. After Robert turned the radio down, I pressed the button and a green light turned on.

A voice buzzed from the other end of the line. "State your name and business."

"I'm her Highness Princess Snow White of Terre De Miroir and if you don't let this car in, I will make sure you understand the horrors of facing a wolf three times your size in the Spectacles."

"Yes, Your Highness."

There was a grating sound and I looked up to see the black, metal gates sliding open.

Robert glanced at me, his eyebrows raised. "It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one you threaten," he said.

"Drive," I snapped.

The car lurched forward and we passed through the metal gates into the gardens of the Black Root Palace. The driveway passed through the gardens, giving us a splendid view of the fountains, which were designed to play with water and mirrors so that from certain angles, it was hard to tell the two apart. I glanced at Robert and saw his open-mouthed awe. I smirked; he was unmistakably lower class.

The driveway ended with a circle, where the driveway curved around a grassy island, which contained a single, flourishing tree that bore several crisp, red apples. The driveway passed in front of the silver entrance doors of the palace. The doors had been there since the construction of the castle. The silver was embellished with the imprint of a tree, its braches reaching up to the top of the massive doors and its roots stretching to the bottom. As pretty as the front doors of the castle were, they were also a pain to keep clean. As we pulled up to the front of the castle, I watched the servants (who are plain and unimportant and therefore shall receive no names) polish the silver door to prevent every tarnishing.

Robert put the car in park.

"When you leave this place," I said. "Throw away the car."

"What?" said Robert.

"I will reimburse you later," I said. "But unless you wish to be cursed, you will throw away the car."

I opened the car door and hopped out onto the driveway. I was immediately greeted by the butler, a tall blank-haired man with eyes the color of moss.

"You Highness," said the butler, bowing. "We were not expecting you."

"Were you not?" I asked. "I didn't come home last night. You should have expected I would return today."

"We received no prior warning of your absence," said the butler. "And we heard about the incident at the Spectacle yesterday. We feared you had passed away."

"Me? Never," I said. I watched as Robert revved the engine and drove down the driveway, leaving the palace premises as swiftly as possible. I turned back to the butler and smiled. "I cannot die until I achieve everything I want to in life."

"Of course, Your Highness," said the butler. "We should have known. It is good that you are alive. Her Majesty was beside herself with grief when we heard you had disappeared."

I snorted. "I'm sure she was."

The butler did not respond to my comment, but waited patiently for me to speak again. We passed through the front doors of the palace (the servants who were polishing the doors sent me curious glances as I passed). It was only when the butler and I were standing in privacy of the front hall that I turned to him and said, "Firstly, tell my mother I am alive and I will meet her in the North Chamber in an hour. Secondly, tell Colton that I wish to speak with him."

The butler nodded. "As you wish, Your Highness."

He departed first and I headed directly to my bedroom on the fourth floor of the palace. The first thing I did was change. I refused to be seen by my mother in the wrinkled clothes from yesterday. I went to my bedroom and picked out a yellow skirt (from this season's fall collection) and a navy blue shirt (presentable, but not prude). To frustrate my mother, I put on my red, lace-up boots (she considered them tacky even though they were number eight on _Fairy Fashion's Top Ten Winter Clothing Must Haves_). Content that I looked stunning, I made my way to the sitting area of my quarters and found that Colton was already there, sitting on the black leather couch, waiting for me.

Head of my Security and Master of my Information Network, John Colton had once been the general of my father's army. He was in his late fifties now with shirt silver hear and beady eyes. He had developed a potbelly in his old age, but Colton was still as sharp in wit as ever. As my father's loyal general, Colton had always despised my mother who, unofficially, had caused the death of my father, and since I was one-year-old, Colton had been grooming me to take over for my mother.

I entered the sitting room and settled onto the sofa opposite Colton. He regarded me silently, waiting for me to make the first move.

"Do you know Robert Nott?" I asked.

"No," said Colton.

"He saved my life at the stadium yesterday," I said.

"Did he?" Colton drummed his fingers on his knee. "Did he ask for a reward?"

"He asked for support," I said.

Colton knew what I meant. I couldn't say anything outright since I had no idea where my mother's spies were lurking, but that didn't mean that Colton couldn't understand me.

"Shall I contact him them," said Colton.

"I have no interest in supporting someone else," I said meaningfully.

"You are one to be supported, not the supporter," said Colton.

"Good," I said. I rose from the sofa. "I have a meeting with my mother."

"Good luck," said Colton.

I left.

Yes, that's really what Colton's and my conversation were like. To anyone outside, we seemed distant from one another, but to us, a lot had been said in those short, disconnected phrases. In fact, we had just agreed that Colton would get into contact with Robert Nott and his company, which would form and alliance between my people and Robert's people. Colton would do his best to manipulate the terms of the contact so that I would have the ability to make the decisions in regards to law alterations. You see? All that in one conversation. I bet you couldn't follow it.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah.

Surprisingly, my mother was not at the North Chamber yet—I had fifteen minutes before the arranged meeting time. I was glad for these fifteen minutes because they gave me time alone with the Mirror of Truth. I stood in the center of black-stone floor and stared at the large, oval-shaped mirror in front of me. No ordinary mirror could be compared to the Fairy's Mirror. The glass itself was filled with a dark mystery that no one could understand. One could get lost, staring into the darkness of their own reflection. The Mirror would devour them without hesitation and a person could spend the rest of his life staring into the glass without moving.

I stood before the Mirror and beheld the fearless, beautiful, and proud, the Princess of Terre De Miroir. She would not be lost in the Fairy's magic. She would hold herself upright and look the Fairy directly in the eye.

"Is the Huntsman still alive?"

The deep, resonating voice filled the room. "Yes."

I wasn't surprised in the slightest. "Is he still trying to kill me?"

"Yes."

On instinct, not out of surprise, I turned around and glanced over my shoulder. The North Chamber was still empty. There was no one sitting on the maroon sofa in the corner and the windows were firmly shut. If the Huntsman was still trying to kill me, he was on break at the moment. I turned back to the Mirror and whispered my final question. "Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, did my mother, Queen Rose White of Terre De Miroir, hire the Huntsman to kill me?"

I knew the answer before I voiced the question. However, I wanted proof. I wanted to hear the answers in the ageless, all-knowing voice of the Mirror.

"Yes."


End file.
